


These things happen.

by cumberbellins



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (sort of), Depressing, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rambling, War, and you've probably read the exact same thing countless times, anyway, enjoy, enough rambling for today, hence the destiel tag, i know how to sell my stuff, if you can, little crappy, mine's cas, such great tags, you can choose your own narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-24
Updated: 2014-09-24
Packaged: 2018-02-18 16:04:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2354396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cumberbellins/pseuds/cumberbellins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is something so horrifying about the way people just don't care.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These things happen.

There is something so horrifying about the way people just don't care.

Well, of course, they do. People care like they've been taught to: adopt a mortified expression, wince a little, pinch your lips and sigh through your nose. _These things happen, you know_.

Yeah, of course he _knows_. That's kind of what he's trying to say, if you'd just stop thinking about how you're gonna respond and just _listen_ for ten little seconds. He knows there's no good answer, there's no magical formula that will make everything ok by the sheer power of words. It doesn't really matter what you say when he's done. It doesn't even really matter whether you speak at all. But people are just so interested in their own response, like it's some kind of challenge. _Most relevant philosophical quote you can find, bonus points if it rhymes_. Then they pat him on the shoulder and try to refrain from asking questions.

Ah – questions. They've got thousands, everyone. It's mostly always the same but sometimes he gets new ones. He won't answer you if you ask about how it felt; often enough people want to know about fear and remorse and guilt, but he just shrugs and asks for coffee. Sugar, if you have any. But if you wanna know about how many – or how much, depending on how you like to measure it – he'll probably look you in the eye with a glint of hope for a moment or two, and murmur an answer while judging your reaction.

 _I couldn't count all of them_ , he'll tell you. _No one can count. We try, all of us, but you can't._ He remembers that young guy, couldn't have been more than twenty-five. _Young, too young_ , you'll say. _Tragedy, a tragedy_. That's when Dean's back will straighten and he'll remember you're just people. _Yeah, a tragedy_. And he'll drink your coffee and nod or shrug when you ask something else and then he'll have to go because he's got something planned with a friend and he's really sorry he can't stay but maybe next week you can meet again. How does Thursday sound? Never got anything on Thursdays, maybe we can do that.

People don't care. They just want to let him know they know better because they've read books and they've studied philosophy for almost nine months, so basically he should stop complaining 'cause many had it worse. Like he'd ever _complain_.

Anyway. That guy, the one who was too young; he was always counting. Dean could see him at night. They had trouble sleeping, the both of them, for a few months, so at night they just stayed there in silence and waited. And that guy, he was counting them on his fingers. At first he even recited their names, but you quit trying pretty quickly when you've got ten more names every day. After that you try to keep track of the numbers, but that doesn't last much longer. After that, you sort of stop altogether. You know it's in the low hundreds, but there's really no way to know if that idiot standing in the middle like he's asking for it took your bullet or someone else's.

Of course, he's not an idiot, the guy that's standing there. He's just lost. Sometimes you don't have time to know where you are; someone just wakes you screaming _get the hell out of here_ and then you have to get up and half of you is wondering what you're gonna have for breakfast. He might have been looking for milk, the idiot. Doesn't really make a difference, does it?

But the memories, the flashbacks, the nightmares, the silence in the morning and the noise at night, the questions and the sympathetic smiles, the days he wonders if he's dreaming and reality's still back there, people who want to hear about it, people who don't want to hear about it, the numbers he tries to call before he remembers there's no one to pick up, the letters he receives, the letters he doesn't, the goodbyes he didn't get to say, the ones he remembers whispering, the look people who just found out give him, the eyes watering, the lips curling, the faces crumbling, the shoulders slumping, the bad news, the good news – he can take it all. It's all small weights people regularly add at the top of his spine, making him a little more round-shouldered every time. But he can take it.

He's used to that burden, _his ball and chains_ , he calls it with a smile. Not in front of you, 'cause you'd ask questions and you wouldn't find it funny anyway. But when he's on his own and it's just him and the ghosts haunting his mind, he'll say that. _My ball and chains_. He'll look in the mirror like he's looking at you except his reflection understands, and he'll say it. At first he thought it was funny because that's a sarcastic way to refer to a loved one, and boy does he love sarcasm. Now, he doesn't really get the joke anymore. Maybe he's just repeated it too many times. But still, he remembers it's funny, so he smiles. _My ball and chains. My better half._

Sometimes you'll be talking to him about anything and he'll be elsewhere. He's not doing it on purpose; he's not trying to be disrespectful; sometimes he's not even bored. He's just elsewhere. And that's when you can see it, if you pay attention. That's when he's trying to put it into words. He's thought about it a few times, putting it all into words. _Therapeutic_ , someone told him. That's when he let go of the idea. He wants to talk about it, but people answer. Paper tends not to. Except now it's _therapeutic_. People never pay attention.

He wrote a few lines once. It's hard to decypher because his handwritting is really crappy, but if you're patient and motivated enough, you'll make out a few things. It doesn't really make sense to anyone other than himself though. Maybe it doesn't even make any to him. _That's where the world bleeds_ , he wrote. _It's just one massive bleeding wound and we're all drowning in blood pretending we can stop it_. If you read a little further you'll find the question. The one he's still trying to come up with an answer for. Maybe when he finds one he'll start healing. _How can you put it into words_. It's not even a question, actually. It's like he knows there's no answer anyway. After that, there's a short paragraph that stops mid-sentence. He tried. Didn't work out. The paper's an uneven pile of scattered ashes now.

Making sense out of it is a waste of time. These things happen. The thing is, when they're over, they're not really over. They're not the only ones that happen, but these things don't care. They obliterate all the rest. And they do that because they change people.

When Dean came back, I didn't expect the calmness, the dead eyes, the cold hands. I'd never predicted the silence. The ball and chains. The glint of hope in his eyes when a door opens, and the straightening of his back when it slams shut as though against his spine.

But that's because I'm just people, now. 


End file.
